


Of Villains and Not-Heroes

by Hiero_chan36



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John, Bored Sherlock Holmes, Dystopia, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, M/M, Pining, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Stalker Jim Moriarty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-01 11:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiero_chan36/pseuds/Hiero_chan36
Summary: John is a Leaper; emergency responders stationed evenly throughout cities, ready to fight and heal at any moment's notice, all hours of the day.Now who should John meet at many of these emergencies that became crime scenes?





	1. Mr. Whiskers

**Author's Note:**

> Ok I suck at this, just saying. This was an idea just bouncing around in my head for a while. This hasn't really been edited or reread so pleeeeeease let me know if there are any errors
> 
> Feedback (of any description) is most definitely welcome!!

"Is anyone here a doctor?” 

John snorted. A gunshot wound to the medulla oblongata and some crazy blonde was requesting medical help, as if a thousand doctors could stem the blood flow that had begun to create a crimson puddle around her office grade, high heels. The onlookers surrounding the corpse glanced around expectantly as if waiting for someone to step forward, tucking their halo into their white coat as they squish the tiny pieces of brain matter back into the gaping wound in the man’s head and therefore bringing him back to life. 

Laughter began to bubble up inside him and escaped through his lips at the image his mind had conjured up. Soon his shoulders were shaking with the gasps of uncontrollable laughter as more shots began to rip through the crowd. Bodies began to drop like flies and sheer panic caused the rest of the onlookers to flee. 

He switched the channel once he had a semblance of control over his giggles, realising that, for an outside observer, he would appear insane, laughing at the corpses on a 9pm hospital drama. For his occupation, it would appear deeply concerning to his superiors. He settled for a safe alternative on the comedy channel, despite finding it deeply lacking in humour. He soon found his gaze wandering to the crack in the plaster behind his telly. Six months after moving into the crummy bedsit and he still hadn’t made a slight impact. Everything still felt so temporary. Including the crack in the wall. He rather thought it looked like the crack in the wall from doctor who. As if his life as a leaper wasn’t exciting enough, he now found himself dreaming about monsters coming out of the walls. 

He sighed, taking a sip of his tea which was barely warm and bordering on tragic. The one downside to being on the job 24/7 was that drinking alcohol was strictly prohibited. Technically he was on commission, ‘leaping’ to the aid of whoever needed it and only getting paid on the severity of the emergency. He found there was not nearly enough near death experiences in this part of London to sustain his endless take-away habits. 

With a jolt he realised his program had ended and was now showing the late news. He glanced at his pager and to no surprise, there hadn’t been a distress call. Not that he would be able to miss the obnoxiously loud beeping from the device he was to keep on his person “at all times, John. Humanity depends on you. On us.” 

“Yes Sarah, I know. We’re the first line of defence. I won’t let humanity down.” John muttered to the disembodied voice of his rather attractive boss. He was growing more desperate to find an excuse to get out of the cramped flat with it’s pathetic, standard issue furniture, finding that imagining the voice of his superior was a good enough reason as any. He poured the rest of his cold tea down the sink and left the telly to it’s own devices. He took the stairs down to the ground floor, his pager resting snugly in the pocket of his jacket. 

He supposed it was too late at night to call Sarah and ask her for a drink. He found that very few of his girlfriends accepted his running out on dinner dates to stop an idiot from bleeding to death and leaving them with the bill. He would have offered to pay for it if they stopped deleting his number. Sarah may be his last chance at getting laid. Being a leaper herself, she would understand. 

The whole system was fairly new, new enough to have not wormed it’s way into movies and tv shows, therefore causing John to cringe at every “is there a doctor here?” Especially since London was the first city to trial run the experiment. Leapers, they were called. Like the coincidental off-duty doctor at the scene of the crime that used to squish brains back into place and be declared a hero, Leapers were on duty...all the time. Ready to leap to other’s aid. But acting as though they were off-duty. London had been divided into districts and in every district there were a certain amount of Leapers. 

John had joined the Leaper force a month after his return from Afghanistan, after a long bout insomnia. His sleeping cycle was interrupted by dreams of sand and blood anyway, what was a few persistent beeps in his ear compared to that? 

He wrapped his jacket around himself tighter as he set off at a brisk walk down the street of his painfully docile neighbourhood. The last distress call had been for a cat up a tree over a week ago. After gently explaining to the sniffling, greying woman that a distress call was for emergencies only he had received a firm lecture on Mr. Whiskers’ right to live, despite his apparent suicidal tendencies. John couldn’t blame him. Had he had such an insufferable owner he probably would be seeking out dangerous heights too. 

John had filed a relocation form immediately after bravely descending from the tree, sporting many scratches on his arms. He was sure that any day now he would receive a call to a more dangerous part of the city, far away from the misfortune of the grey tabby that was Mr. Whiskers. 

His brooding thoughts were interrupted by the demanding beep of his pager. He fished it out of his pocket, fumbling with it in surprise. One beep meant a message from HQ. Well Bart’s hospital. John liked to think of the wing on the ground floor as HQ. The little screen assaulted his eyes with it’s harsh light. He had often wondered why they called it a pager. It was more like a little phone but he supposed it was the appropriate thing to call it among doctors. 

All leapers to report to Bart’s at earliest convenience. S

John’s eyebrows rose. Calling in all Leapers was not something that happened often. So this was something big. Big enough to call in all of London’s immediate life savers. It may not have been the shooting John was hoping for but it was something. 

He stuffed the little phone pager into his pocket and set off at jog towards a busier street in search of a cab. 

\---

“We’re ‘upgrading’ the system” Sarah said, looking somewhat dejected. 

She stood at the front of the room, hands on her hips and scanning the room severely. There had to be over fifty people sitting at the desks or leaning against the walls, some of them rubbing the sleep out their eyes or smoothing down hair. As John had arrived late due to a missing wallet and an embarrassing ride back to his bedsit in order to pay the cabbie, he was right at the back of the room, craning his neck over shoulders and cursing his height. Sarah nodded to an IT technician sitting at the computer to her left who turned on a projector. An image of the human body appeared on the whiteboard behind her. 

Areas of it had been highlighted and labelled. John squinted at the small letters beside a shaded purple area. Adrenal medulla and Adrenal cortex. He felt a small sense of foreboding curling his stomach. 

“Now, what I’m about to tell you may oppose your ethical compass and I’ll understand if some of you wish to leave the force at this point but the chip implants have moved from theory into practise.” Sarah announced. From what John could see, Sarah’s facial expression appeared to be disapproving. She looked uncomfortable as she turned to point at areas of the brain. 

“The chip that will be implanted in every British citizen measures the subjects cortisol and epinephrine levels. Should it reach a certain level, this will transmit a signal to a Leaper or police officer in a certain radius. So far we have only been able to extend the signal as far as one kilometre. Our plan is to expand it to ten. That is, however, still being worked on. Now this is where we have been experiencing difficulties.” She turned back to the room, the next slide showing a close up of a small microchip. She sighed. “This is, of course useless unless we are able to pinpoint where the signal is originating. The plan to implant a GPS into the chip is cause for major concern. People are going to object, obviously. Well it’s only a small step. Mobile phone’s are essentially GPS’ already, it’s just not expressed as blatantly.”

John’s insides did a little tumble. He had often joked with his co-workers about how much easier his job would be with the ability to read minds. He didn’t actually expect anyone to take the running joke seriously. 

He found a twisted truth in Sarah’s words however. The original method of sending a distress signal was to punch in a number on your phone. No one was waiting to answer the call, it didn’t even ring. It simply sent the location, alerting the closest leaper into action. John had found it thrilling at times, not knowing what to expect when arriving at the scene. It was arguably faster than emergency services but almost triple the danger. It could be a knife wielding serial killer in a darkened alley….or an evil mastermind cat up a tree, waiting to make your life miserable. The possibilities were endless. That was also why leapers were trained at basic defence. As an army doctor, the role had been made for John and the dangerous prospect only sweetened the deal. Well, it would, if he were living in a neighbourhood full of criminals with cat allergies. 

“...that is, until a few hours ago when Mr. Holmes gave it the all clear.”

John snapped out of his thoughts and focused back on his boss. 

“The trials have been run and the project is go, and over the next month, British citizens will report to their nearest hospital for the implant. The microchips will not be activated until the first of May. During this time you will all be retrained to accomodate this new system. For those of you staying on, that is. Leapers will not be required to have a chip inserted, I’m afraid you’ll have to rely on the good old-fashion call to 999.”

“Wait why?” Someone to John’s right asked. 

“Because a leaper responding to a distress call may find particular events stressful. After all, you have the most stressful jobs in the country. We wouldn’t want all the leapers responding to other leapers. I’ll admit, this still has glitches that need to be smoothed out and the only way to do this is with a nation wide trial run. The Prime Minister approved it only, well yesterday. As it is well past midnight, I won’t keep you. All your questions will be answered during your retraining. You are dismissed.” She finished with a wave of her hand. She turned to face the image of the microchip with her arms folded. A murmer broke out immediately as everyone began to shuffle out the room. John began to follow suit when he heard Sarah call his name. 

She was watching him with a smile. Her arms unfolded and she beckoned him over. At a closer distance, John could see the tired strain on her eyes, her mascara slightly smudged that gave the impression of near-death exhaustion. 

“I have good news” She muttered conspiratorially. 

“Oh?” He replied, his tone playfully flirtatious. He resisted the urge to skim his eyes over her slim figure. Her tight, dark purple shirt worked wonders for her...upper torso. 

Dammit. He berated himself. There was just something so difficult about being professional at one in the morning. Especially with his boss being rather temptingly attractive. 

“John? Did you hear what I said?” Sarah snapped her fingers in front of John’s nose, her mouth quirked up into a knowing smile. 

“Uh what? Sorry?” John stammered, kicking himself mentally, making a point to train his eyes on her rather lovely brown ones. 

“I said your transfer’s been processed. They want you in central London. There’s a pay rise too because it’s expensive to find a place. It should be ok, there’s quite a bit of action. What you can’t afford now, you can surely afford soon.”

“Oh that’s brilliant” John grinned, all thought of his boss’ pectorals were simply whisked away. 

\---

“And how long will you be staying sir?”

“Umm, I don’t know. Can I just pay whenever I leave?” John fidgeted slightly, his bag at his feet. 

“Sorry sir, but we’ve had one too many people staying and then ditching without paying.”

“Oh that’s good” John said enthusiastically glancing up at the roof as if expecting to see all the criminal intentions of the people above him. Things were already off to a great start. Well that is until John caught sight of the receptionist’s expression. “I mean uh, it’s good that you’re working to fix that. Um, just put me down for two weeks, for now. On card.” He said, handing it over. 

The receptionist, a surly looking man in his fifties, accepted the card after giving John a once over with the odd expression still on his face. John ignored him in favour of glancing around. The hotel was dingy, the nicest word John could give it. He felt a thrill go through him at the sight of ne’er-do-wellers lingering about the lobby. This was simply a Petri dish of criminal behaviour, despite being situated on Baker Street. The exterior of the building blended in nicely but the interior looked like it had once been akin to something fancy and had fallen on hard times. 

Not surprising, what with the service John thought bitterly as the man handed back his card along with a key. 

“Room 47, second floor” 

John nodded approvingly. Less stairs to run down. He was a little surprised his card was approved. He hadn’t even checked the going price for a room. Or his bank account. Sarah’s promise of riches still echoing in his mind from the week before. That and the image of her in that lovely top, her hair slightly messy in what John’s mind supplied to be scandalously mussed. He imagined that’s what it would look like after he had run his hands through it. 

“The lift is over there” the receptionist pointed. John realised he may have been standing there for too long, his arm still outstretched with his card and key. 

He gave the man a brief nod before picking up his duffel bag that held all of his worldly possessions and marching in accordance with the man’s directions. He took the stairs that were off to the side out of habit. 

His stomach protested loudly as he made his way down the dim hallway of the second floor. His thoughts turned to the Chinese restaurant on the corner that he had passed while in a cab. The problem with being a leaper was that cooking was as dangerous as his job. Whether it was baking a cake or frying potatoes, if a distress signal came through, all thoughts of food leapt from his mind as he rushed out to the rescue. He found this was a common problem for his co-workers. It usually meant coming home, covered in blood, to an unrecognisable pile of burnt offering, or once even, a fire burning the tea towels in a rather inncocent way. It was ironic. By preventing a danger, many had cause another. John even felt paranoid about baths. He always showered quickly and kept a robe at hand just in case. He felt no desire to replicate the eureka moment. 

He reached his door, rummaging in his pocket for the key. The room that greeted him was disturbingly similar to his old bedsit. One single bed. A small fold out table and a tiny kitchen squeezed into the corner. An inspection of the bathroom had similar disappointing results. 

John felt right at home. Sort of. 

He dropped the duffel bag onto the bed and moved to the window that also acted as a sliding door onto the bacony. 

Well that’s new he thought happily as he stepped out onto the slab of concrete that was only about a metre wide. There was a little iron railing surrounding him. His room was overlooking the street. Across from him were a series of flats, some of the windows lit up due to the dusk creeping over the city. 

Well this could be very nice John thought. 

\---

“This is not negotiable, Sherlock” 

The detective ignored his brother, his eyes flicking back to the lens of his beloved microscope. 

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the kitchen floor impatiently. 

“Sherlock” 

“What are you going to do, Mycroft? Sedate me and call in a band of doctors you have hiding under the sofa to perform a quick surgery on my kitchen table?”

The elder brother wrinkled his nose. “Hardly. I’m going to sedate you and call in a band of my employees that I have waiting patiently downstairs to take you to the hospital to perform the mandatory implantation in a sterile environment.” He glanced at Sherlock’s empty mug “speaking of which, would you like a cup of tea?” He smiled innocently. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He slid out the microchip that had been under his microscope for the past ten minutes and slid it across the table, back to Mycroft. It was approximately the size of his pinky’s fingernail. 

“I am not having that thing anywhere near me. I don’t need your ‘concern’ to get any more invasive than it already is.” He stalked out of the kitchen, stepped around large stacks of papers and slumped into his leather chair. He picked up the Stradivarius that lived beside his chair and plucked a string continuously, glaring at his brother who was still staring at the kettle. 

“Unwise, brother mine.” 

Sherlock snorted. He picked up his bow and rapidly slid it along the strings of the violin, creating a tuneless screeching sound. Mycroft didn’t even flinch as Sherlock continued to create an awful impression of a dying owl. 

“What if I were to say that I know a mortuary attendant that would be willing to supply you with any chemical or body part you desire?” Mycroft asked, turning to face his younger, tornado of a brother who now had a glint of interest shining in his pale, oceanic eyes, his pale hands still.


	2. Chip

It was late April and John was...excited. It was only a few days until the official trial began. It had made international news headlines for weeks. England was the talk of the world, and not all of it was exactly positive. As predicted, there was an uproar. There was protesting outside of hospitals and the news had exhausted all the synonyms for ‘invasive.’ 

Despite the general objection to the idea, almost 80% of the population had the chip implanted. Most had balked at the idea of serving jail time. There had been expected protest of violating human rights and something else John hadn’t really been paying attention to. His focus was on finding somewhere to live. He regretted not checking the prices of the rooms in this hotel before handing over his card. 

The embarrassment of his card declining at the Chinese restaurant was worse than forgetting his wallet in a cab. He still remembered the strange moment after he had asked to try his card again, another customer that had been waiting behind him had swooped in, flashing his card across the machine and all but shoving John out the way once he had tossed the receipt at him. He then proceeded to demand the food he had ordered over the phone in a posh, arrogant voice. John couldn’t even squeeze in a thank you before the man was suddenly sweeping out of the restaurant muttering incoherent insults under his breath, his take away nestled in a plastic bag that was swinging around rather violently with the man’s long strides. 

John stared after his flapping coat in bewilderment. He had expected criminal robberies in this part of town, not rude charity. 

However, once he had received his order and hurried it back to his hotel room, he found it had been one of the best meals of his life. John suspected the lack of his money spent on it had something to do with it. 

A few weeks later and John now found himself without money or food. Again. His army pension had gone to prolonging his stay at this ridiculously overpriced hotel and the leftover Chinese had only stretched over a little while. Now his stomach was demanding attention as he sat cross-legged on his bed watching the continued debate on the telly. 

John wondered if this argument would go on for years. It seemed to be the age old question if human lives were worth more than privacy. John supposed he was too biased to express his opinion to the television screen. It was unlikely they would hear him let alone agree with him. After all, he didn’t have to have the chip implanted as long as he remained in his job. 

Fewer familiar faces showed up to the retraining courses at Bart’s every week but luckily, they were replaced by others who thought that becoming a leaper was the only way to legally get out of having the chip installed. 

John didn’t blame them for their motives for joining but was sceptical at the newcomer’s abilities. Having a bunch of greenhorns at the beginning of a national trial would not give good results. It’s as if the whole world was watching to see the test crash and burn so that the country would become the laughing stock of the world. 

May the first began with frost on the glass. It was typical for it to be ridiculously cold on John’s first official day in his new position and he had already expected to be on his feet, flying down the streets in hot persuit of criminal masterminds. 

Instead, he found himself curled under the sheets, shivering. His days under a hot afghan sun had erased the memory of London’s unforgiving climate. The sun had been up for two hours now and yet, the pager John had carefully placed on the bedside table remained mockingly silent. He supposed the criminal classes got cold too. Maybe they were all plotting robberies under their blankets, waiting until spring to set the wheels in motion. In the meantime, they would be hibernating in order to save on food. 

He had honest doubts about the chip. He wondered what chaos would ensue during exams. Students sobbing over their textbooks at three in the morning would suddenly be greeted by leapers climbing through their windows. He supposed they could give the students a quick pop-quiz and a hug before climbing back out the window. 

But apparently the chip was unique to every person. Anxiety disorders were the most complicated problem with the chip. Each patient was required to take tests and declare any form of medication that would interfere with the implant. Those that had an anxiety disorder that refused medication had their alert levels raised. It was not a perfect solution but time would tell if their methods needed adjusting. They were only a breath away from enforcing medication and it seemed ethics were becoming an endangered species in this country. 

Recreational drugs were the second issue, but for a different reason. Some would interfere with the chemical formula for panic. While leapers were authorised to make arrests, it was greatly discouraged to get involved in a drugs bust by oneself. Leapers were originally introduced as doctors anyway. They were currently working on upgrading the chip so that it could differentiate between natural hormones and those cause by artificial chemicals. 

He rolled out of bed, eyeing the bathroom longingly. He would not risk a hot shower on the morning of the trial. He was so wired, he would probably run out of his room without any clothes on if that infernal device beside his bed so much as made a peep. 

His day was spent pacing in front of the pager for hours, turning it on every now and then to make sure it was charged and in working order. He then proceeded to clean his ears, pacing to the window in case there was someone housebreaking across the road. 

All was quiet. Normal. The sun was already beginning to set and yet, the pager remained silent. He turned on the evening news, wondering if the criminal classes had forgotten to host a sweater shop heist and had all frozen to death. The telly blared to life with a grinning anchor. 

“...Proved successful as London’s crime rate dropped by 86% overnight. The experimental chip implantation project seems to have caused a temporary lapse in criminal activity. There’s no telling how long this lapse will last, it seems there are no willing criminals to be the first to test…” 

John muted the tv, leaving it as the only light source in the room and flopped onto the bed. 

“Look at it Mrs. Hudson. Calm. Quiet. Isn’t it hateful?” He sighed dramatically. 

“I’m sure something will come up Sherlock. A nice murder. That will cheer you right up.” She replied, smiling as she poured his tea into a white China cup. 

He ran his hand through his hair, his fingers brushing over a small shaved part where he still felt small stitches. He supposed the head in the fridge was worth it. He shuddered at the thought of entrusting his brain to some incompetent plebeian. Suppose it was too late to object now. 

Mycroft really had sedated him. He had begun to change his mind after being introduced to the timid mouse known as Molly Hooper. She had practically squeaked when he fixed her with his gaze. Then she had turned a rather unusual colour. Had she been a corpse, Sherlock would have sampled her skin and examined it under a microscope. He imagined skinning live people without their consent would prove difficult and a bit not good. 

And then, while scrutinising her, what he assumed was one Mycroft’s minions came up behind him and inserted a needle into his neck. He woke up much later with a small section of his hair shaved and himself in a rather unusual mind. He found, for the first time, that he agreed with the general public. There was something very wrong with this entire method of public safety. It went too far, bordering on governmental paranoia. 

He supposed he could find a way to remove it, if only to annoy Mycroft. 

However, his brother had kept his end of the bargain despite Sherlock’s second thoughts. There was the head in the fridge to prove it. He had originally requested it in order to practise removing the tiny chip in his head but decided he might as well determine the coagulation of saliva after death first. 

He had been without a case ever since the mention of a mind reading chip caused a nationwide paranoia about getting caught murdering their spouses. He supposed he would have to make his own crimes if something didn’t come up soon. He snatched his phone from the mantel and moved back to stand in front of the window. 

Any cases? SH

He glanced across the road as if expecting a case of defenestration from one of the floors of the hotel. He was horribly disappointed. His phone buzzed insistently in his hand. 

For the last time NO! GL

Please just let me enjoy this break a little longer. GL

He checked his website and was greeted with more or less the same amount of joy. 

He decided to check Chip’s saliva (he named the head Chip, for obvious reasons) when a piercing shriek tore through the flat. Sherlock dropped his phone in surprise as he swung around to see Mrs. Hudson slam the fridge door closed. 

“Sherlock!” She screeched, fixing him with a stern glare, her hand clutching at her chest. Milk was spilling at her feet as she had dropped the open carton. 

The detective averted his eyes as a flicker of guilt shot through him. He supposed he should have warned her about that. 

He opened his mouth to offer an apologetic sort of explanation but was cut short when the door slammed open and there stood a rather short man with alert, dangerous eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh glob oh glob oh glob. This is my first story! So scary! Thanks absolutely anyone who bothered reading it XD


	3. Seven Percent

He flicked his eyes over the pale man standing at the window. There seemed to be something familiar about him. His expression was that of surprise, not panic. 

Not the victim. 

He dismissed him mentally, glancing around the rest of 221B. He heard shuffling from the kitchen and his muscles leapt into action. He darted into the kitchen where a gentle looking older woman stood in her nightie with her hand over her heart and a puddle of milk soaking her slippers. 

Heart attack? 

“Are you ok miss? Are you currently experiencing chest pain?” He approached carefully, speaking in what Mike called his doctor voice. He paused at the edge of the milk lake to gently take her wrist, examining her rapid pulse. 

Victim. 

The woman seemed to pull herself out of her initial shock at seeing a stranger intrude into the flat to query her health. 

“Oh dear yes I’m fine, just a small fright.” She stepped out of the milk, leaving her soaked slippers beside the puddle. 

“You’re a leaper” a baritone voice cut through the kitchen. 

“Oh!” The woman exclaimed in pleasant surprise, her eyes widening at John. 

John glanced over to the man who had approached the glass sliding door without a sound and was now leaning against it in a nonchalant manner. His blue/green eyes were boring straight into John’s. He had a mop of messy curls and seemed unfazed wearing pyjamas in front of a stranger. 

Well “I’d offer you a tea dear but it seems we have just run out of milk” She assaulted the puddle on the floor with an army of paper towels. John stood back to give her room, grateful for an excuse to look away from the most intense stare anyone had given him. “Do you mind tea without milk?” 

“Excuse me?” John asked, bemused. For his first night on the job, things had gone rather strangely. He wondered if he had the right address.   
“You’re Mrs. Hudson, right?” 

“Yes dear, how...did you know?” She turned back to him after setting the kettle to boil. 

John flickered his eyes from the unusual pair of strangers in the room “Your chip has your ID on it. I’m alerted with the location and the name of the…victim” he explained. 

“Fascinating” The man breathed. John glanced at him, feeling his cheeks grow hot as his pale eyes flickered over John. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

John felt his eyes widen a fraction. “Um...Afghanistan, sorry how did you-“ 

“I’ll take a cup too Mrs. Hudson. Two sugars.” 

“You can make your own damn tea Sherlock! You gave me such a fright. Keeping heads where there’s food, at my time of life, honestly.” Mrs. Hudson handed a steaming mug to a very bewildered John. 

“Sorry. Heads?” He asked her. This was the point where he wondered if he had fallen down a hole and hit his own head. Was he now participating in a mad tea party?

“A head. I call him Chip.” Sherlock stated proudly, nodding his head toward the fridge in invitation. 

John shifted the mug of tea to his right hand and used his left to crack open the fridge. His eyes met with a glassy, unseeing gaze of a frozen head propped next to a jar of jam. "A severed head" he whispered to himself, thoroughly convinced he would be in a nightmare had all his nights not ended with sand and blood.

“I was measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.” Sherlock said adopting an air of indifference and examining his fingernails after John slammed the fridge shut and stood there, unmoving.

“Is there a medical purpose to that?” He asked slowly, wondering if the steaming mug of tea would be an effective weapon to make his escape before he joined Chip in this madman's fridge.

“Does there have to be?” Sherlock replied, raising his chin in slight defiance. His intense stare was back. 

John decided he was beginning to miss Mr. Whiskers. He set his undrunk tea down and raised his palms up. “Look, I was called here on an emergency, if no one’s dying, I think I’ll be going now. Thank you for the tea” he added gently to Mrs. Hudson before stepping back through the door he had burst through. He descended the stairs much slower now that the call of danger had dissipated. 

Little did he know pale eyes followed his short trip back to his hotel. 

John flung himself onto the bed, his mind whirring like a machine. 

What was that about?

That man...Sherlock did she call him? Was he a murderer? 

He had invited John to look at a severed head in his fridge. Surely murderers don’t invite witnesses to their own crime scene. Do they? 

Then there was Mrs. Hudson. She certainly hadn’t been expecting to find a head in her fridge. His pager was proof of that. His fridge? What kind of a relationship did they have anyway? Was she his mother? 

Regardless, once over her initial shock, she didn’t seem all too surprised at his behaviour. 

John shoved his face into the pillow, pushing the strange residents of 221 Baker Street from his mind as he fell asleep, leaving his pager in his jacket pocket for the first time. 

John spun the pen in his hand, wondering what on earth he was supposed to write. 

Leaper name: John H. Watson.  
Victim: Yes? Mrs. Hudson?   
Location: 221B Baker Street.   
Incident: What looked like a heart attack due to a severed head in the fridge, next to the jam.  
Criminal activity: A lunatic called Sherlock  
Casualties: an innocent carton of milk and my sanity.

John screwed up the report and tossed it into the bin beside the desk. He fished it out again, realising that disposing a report like that in a public place would not be a smart move. It had his name on it, after all, and the library attendants had been eyeing him suspiciously over the last hour. 

He supposed writing the report in a public place was equally stupid. Not illegal. Just greatly discouraged. His had the names and addresses of the victim after all. 

He stuffed the paper into pockets already full of other botched reports. He couldn’t just put down an elderly woman experiencing heart palpitations without a call for an ambulance. That would definitely lose him his job. So a little shock it was. Problem was, he couldn’t put it down to severed body parts. 

Couldn’t he?

Why he felt he should be protecting Mrs. Hudson was beyond him. Her kindness had disarmed him. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had offered him tea without expecting money in exchange. 

And then there was him. John couldn’t quite put his finger on it but the gaze he had fixed upon him made John feel like all his life had just been laid bare and had been read with the same ease of reading an open book. 

Afghanistan or Iraq?

His deep voice resonated in his head. John felt a stab of shame. He was notoriously bad at remembering faces. Even harder was to put names to the faces. He had once offered to walk his girlfriend's dog after running out on a dinner date to an emergency before realising she didn't even have a dog because that had been the last one. Needless to say he had not gotten laid that night. Or any night since. Granted that had been three weeks ago and John was definitely feeling the effects of sexual frustration. He needed a good shag or a decent criminal act that did not involve severed appendages in fridges places by a familiar looking local psychopath. 

Surely he didn’t know the man. He knew John was a war veteran but not that he served in Afghanistan. For the people that did know him, one detail followed the other. So why did he feel he recognised the man?

“Sir, the library will be closing in ten minutes” said one of the attendants walking past, snapping him out of his thoughts. It was mandatory to file a report 24 hours after an incident and John had spent the better part of the day trying to word it as delicately as possible. To no avail. 

“Incident: A case of mistaken identity as Mrs. Hudson thought her flat was being broken into…”

Well that was half true. John had all but rammed down the front door

“...by a burglar that was actually just her…”

Her what?? Son? Nephew? Grandson? Pizza delivery boy?? 

“...guest.”

It was pretty lame but he doubted the reports without casualties were even glanced at. False alarms weren’t cause for concern after all. 

Nodding to himself in approval he collected his finished report and headed to Bart’s, already forming the incident into a funny anecdote for Sarah, hopefully told over a very strong drink. 

The first real incident of note was a car accident. Not in John’s area, of course but violent enough to make it onto the news headlines. There had been one casualty: the driver at fault. The man behind the wheel of the other car, however, had been miraculously saved from the horrifying death of a broken leg by the angelic Mike Stamford. The hero. 

John had switched the channel back to his nightly hospital drama, swearing to himself that he didn’t care for glory. If anyone did deserve it though, it was Mike. John had been unable to find a bad bone in his body, making him all the more intolerable. Nevertheless he agreed to a celebratory drink when his fellow worker texted him during the commercial break. 

It was in a week’s time and John didn’t want to go. He decided to avoid thinking about it by returning his attention to trash telly and the pad Thai on his lap. He was losing weight at an alarming rate and he needed all the weight he could get. Any second now, he was certain a knife-wielding maniac was going to invite him into his darkened alley, the glint of his knife drawing him in dangerously close, so very close he could see the white teeth behind that feral smile…

John sprang up, his dinner splattering on the linoleum floor with the cracked pieces of china. He snatched up the pager that was going wild with loud shrieking beeps. His heart continued the furious rhythm even after shutting off the sound and squinting at the name and address of his newest adventure. His adrenaline began to dissolve into dread. 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes.   
221B Baker Street. 

He didn’t bother with his jacket. What could be a liver in the crisper could also be an actual emergency and he wasn’t going to take any chances. It’s not like he could anyway. It was his job. And it was only a few running paces across the road. 

He felt a curious sense of déjà vu as he rammed his shoulder into the black door, the golden address above him gleaming in the orange street lights. He tried the door knob and found it opening easily for the second time in his life. 

He all but flew up the stairs and through the second door on the landing, any second expecting to hear blood-curdling screams or to trip over a corpse or two on his way in.

Instead what he found could only be described as baffling. The flat was warm, cozily so with the fireplace spitting in contentment. In place of bodies on the floor there were books stacked haphazardly. In place of blood, there was tea and amongst the domestic mess, on the sofa, was the unmistakable shape of a man curled into his dressing gown. 

Not moving. 

Not indicating that he was even aware of John invading his sitting room. 

Victim. 

John moved forward hurriedly to the pale figure, grabbing at his wrist as the sound of something cracked beneath his trainers. He lifted his foot to find the broken shards of something that made his stomach roll unpleasantly. A needle. 

“Impressive, doctor.” 

John jumped back, his knees hitting the coffee table and his ass all but collapsed onto it. That voice. Sherlock sat up, uncurling himself from the foetal position and fixed John with his glassy pale stare. His eyes were somehow unfocused and painfully sharp at the same time. His hair even more ruffled than last time. 

“What the hell?” John managed loudly. He scrambled back to his feet nearly knocking his knees into Sherlock’s. Sherlock also stood brushing past John and stepping onto and over the coffee table in a navy dressing gown whirlwind to stand at the window. 

“You only stepped on six of the stairs, including the eleventh one, which squeaks. Three stairs at a time, quite impressive for someone of your stature.” His eyes raked over John, from head to toe and back again. John valiantly managed not to squirm under the scrutinization. “So for 48 seconds to arrive here, you must be living on the second floor” his pale eyes travelled up the building opposite “and you didn’t look for cars before crossing the street. Quite the sense of duty there, soldier.” 

John froze. Soldier. His adrenaline was still flowing through veins and had just increased tenfold after hearing this strange man repeat that little detail. Soldier. He was still hovering by the door when Sherlock slumped into a dark armchair by the fire and gestured to the one sitting opposite him. 

Then John remembered his purpose for being here in the first place. “What was in this?” He demanded, pointing to the broken needle at his feet. 

The detective groaned, shifting his hands up to his chin in mock prayer. “A solution.”

“A solution to what?” 

“No, a seven percent solution.”

“Of what?”

Sherlock scratches his arm absentmindedly. “Cocaine.”

“Cocaine?” John exclaimed loudly. This guy? A junkie?

“Shh! Mrs. Hudson is trying to sleep downstairs, although with the racket you made storming up here, I believe she has taken some herbal soothers ‘for her hip.’”

“Downstairs? She doesn’t live in this flat?”

Sherlock snorted. “She’s my landlady. And not my housekeeper.” He added with a small twitch of his lips. "By the way doctor, how many steps are out there on that staircase?"


	4. Gold Diggers and Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did not read through this, haha not sorry

  
It continued like this for weeks. The insistent beeps echoing in the tiny bedsit, a short jog across the road at all hours, damn the traffic, taking the 17 steps two at a time only to find said sociopath reclining on a sofa holding his hand out for his phone, laptop, and once even a cup of tea. Of course all requests were met with John's indignant protests and lectures on the proper use of emergency services. And after the request for tea, he merely threw a union jack pillow at the face of his tormentor.

Of course none of John's lectures elicited a response from the detective (except a small "oof" when the cushion collided with his nose). He just simply waited with his palm held out expectantly until John huffed in frustration and stormed back down those 17 steps.

Recently though, John had just taken to slapping the phone onto Sherlock's palm none too gently, finding small satisfaction when he found it. Sometimes he found it under sinks, in the kettle, under the severed fingers in the fridge and once even in the pocket of the detective's purple shirt. The latter had him storming out again, if only to hide the unexpected grin suddenly making an appearance on his face.

Every time John had found the sleek black phone, Sherlock had opened his eyes and gave him an approving sort of smirk, as if he were merely testing John, rather than making it his life's mission to annoy him. This rather annoyed john. More annoyingly was that he had no idea how he was continuously being summoned to a perfectly peaceful flat, with no aggravated housekeepers in sight. He would have to try and replace his pager, there was something obviously wrong with it. Or it had somehow been hacked.

Of course when John wasn't running after the curly-haired madman and heroically saving old ladies from being mugged, he was trying to get laid. desperately.

While Sarah had looked the most promising candidate, he found himself turning all his jean pockets inside-out in order to find the number of a pretty blonde that had winked at him in line at Tesco's.

Grinning in triumph when his hand curled around the crumpled piece of receipt with a little inked love heart in the corner, John dived for his mobile with surprising agility.

\--- 

It was a disaster. And that was a mild understatement.

Halfway through a pleasant conversation about how many cats could one legally own with what's-her-name, the worst sound in the world began to make itself known from the confines of his trousers.

Whats-her-name paused mid-sentence with a scowl on her features. She didn't look pretty anymore.

"Aren't you going to turn that off?" She asked a frozen John with very mild irritation.

John only stumbled to his feet, knocking the table in the process, whats-her-name's glass of red wine knocking over and spilling down the front of her skimpy cream dress. She let out an exaggerated squeal, one that sounded like it had been rehearsed for years, and threw the most burning glare John had ever received in his life.

"Oh god, oh god I'm so sorry" John began rambling, throwing the waiters a desperate look. They arrived en scene with napkins and silly french accents John was sure none of them really owned.

He dug the infernal pager out his pocket and felt his heart rate spike. "John Standish" A street very far away from Baker Street and rather near this snooty restaurant.

"I-I'm sorry, I have to go" he said

"What?" What's-her-name squawked with a more natural sounding shrill. Even the waiters paused their fussing to stare at John in disbelief.

Here was a date that had just ruined what looked like a very expensive dress and was now planning on ditching the responsibility with apparently no remorse whatsoever.

"I'll pay for all of it, of course. And for the dress." He dug his hand in the other pocket and what felt like a chunk of ice fell to the bottom of his stomach. It was empty.

Realisation was dawning on all their faces as John muttered a very sincere apology and all but ran out of the restaurant, pushing aside the usher and opening the damn door himself and escaping into the refreshingly cool evening.

\---

There was blood everywhere. All up the walls of the alley, spilling over the dumpster bins, illuminated by flashing blue lights and surrounded by uniforms all fluttering around like moths. In the centre of it all was a swishing black belstaff dancing around a slab of bloody meat. John supposed it was a corpse, however the expression on the curly-haired man's face couldn't be described as anything but glee.

And John felt himself sigh internally. His first failure. He wondered if it would have made a difference had he left the restaurant immediately rather than hold out in hope of salvaging his chances at getting laid. He eyed the blood painting every nearby surface with a nauseous feeling in his stomach. Not because of the blood, he was a doctor after all. And a veteran of Afghanistan. No, this was because he felt some semblance of responsibility for the pathetic excuse of a corpse now being examined with a tiny pocket magnifying glass.

He was too busy wallowing in self pity to notice the approach of a silver haired man that had been standing over Sherlock, watching his progress with practiced patience.

"Move along, this is a crime scene mate" The hand on his elbow dissipated his thoughts and he let himself be shuffled further away from the police tape when a baritone voice cut through John's half-hearted apology.

"He's with me"

And if by a sudden apparition, there was Sherlock, taking his other elbow and leading him back into the alley. The silver-haired man spluttered in indignation, still firmly gripping John's right elbow.

"But who is he?? Sherlock, you know I can't just let random-"

"Lestrade, I said he's with me." Sherlock enunciated firmly, turning away and leading a very bewildered John closer to the corpse, lifting the tape for his height. The man, Lestrade, had let go of John and now stood a few metres away, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. If John had to guess, he'd say this wasn't his first dealing with Sherlock. And rather than wondering what said madman was doing at a crime scene, he turned his attention to the remains of John Standish.

"What do you think, doctor?" John jumped. He had forgotten how close Sherlock had been looming over his shoulder, his hand still gripping his elbow as if afraid John would run away.

"What do I think?" John hissed incredulously. All he wanted was a date that didn't end in stained dressed, that ended up in bed with a pretty blonde and maybe, just maybe, to sleep past 4am without being dragged out of bed to hand someone a phone that was sitting mere metres away from their hand.

He glared up at Sherlock, definitely not noticing the way his irises were ensconced by a golden ring that gave his icy blue eyes an exotic green tint….

"Of the body. You were an army doctor, were you not? Surely you've seen plenty of violent deaths before" Sherlock's mouth twitched as John bristled by that statement.

"Sherlock I can only give you two more minutes-" Lestrade, from across the crime scene, began before he was silenced by a raised palm. Sherlock turned his attention back to John, who had regained the ability of speech.

"What am I doing here, Sherlock seriously, what?" He muttered, making an exaggerated effort to remove his elbow from the loose grip. He was surprised to find the man's name on his lips, his thoughts drifting to how strange it felt to speak it out loud. Such an unusual name.

"Helping me make a point."

"A point? What point is there to make when there is a man lying dead here and it's probably my fault!" The words jumped out with alarming volume that turned the heads of a few forensics. John clamped his mouth shut. That could have been considered a confession to murder and he had practically yelled it right in the middle of the crime scene, standing next to the victim.

"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

John ignored the jab at humour and kept his eyes stubbornly on Sherlock's who decidedly ignored him. He flapped the belstaff behind him with a flourish to avoid dragging it through the blood as he crouched down and continued examining the deep lacerations on the victim's throat with that ridiculous magnifying glass. He placed a hand beneath one of the wounds and frowned. "Cold." He muttered.

Lestrade had finished talking to a short brunette by a police car and was now striding over, his eyes trained suspiciously on John.

"Time of death?" Sherlock queried, glancing up at John rather than Lestrade. John sighed and decided to just get this over with. He pulled out the pager and scrolled to the most recent alert. Sherlock stood and went back to hovering over John's shoulder, very much in his personal space.

"I got the alarm at 7:16" he replied shortly.

Lestrade's eyes widened as they flicked from john to the small phone like device in his hand. "Oh you're the leaper that was signalled, right?"

John nodded once, very aware of his failings from tonight. He suddenly found himself under the scrutiny of the other two men.

"Baker Street is at least fifteen minutes away from here by cab and yet you have clearly just run here and not even breaking a sweat? How did you get here so- oh obvious, obvious, stupid. You weren't going to get anywhere with her John, she would have left you on her doorstep with perhaps a kiss, nothing more. And she wouldn't have answered your calls again. Serial dater for men with very large bank accounts. Yours is pretty pathetic by her standards."

John didn't know whether to be impressed or pissed off. He was mostly just surprised. "How did you-"

"Obvious. You arrived here in 6 minutes. The only restaurant nearby is the one two streets away, calculating your less than average leg height and your timing from your hotel to my flat, it should have taken only half that time, meaning, you felt some semblance of guilt toward your dinner guest, not someone you knew or they'd have understood your situation much more readily. so date it is. One you truly believed you had a chance with. Wrong, by the way. Despite your aesthetic exterior, the previous few texts she had sent to your phone had at three grammatical errors in each sentence and the improper use of the word 'hors d'oeuvres'..." his nose wrinkled in distaste "...suggesting she is clearly only educated up to a high school standard and had been instructed by her old-fashioned minded mother, most likely Christian, to find a rich husband to support her. Seeing as you couldn't even afford your own Chinese last month and had taken her to a 2.5 star restaurant, I'd say it was doomed from the start as she would be practicing celibacy until her wedding night." And with a flourish of finality he slapped John's phone into his hand (John had a very odd sense of deja vu) and swished out of the alley with a "Text me the details, Gavin. Laters."

John stood staring at the mouth of the alley where Sherlock had just left. His mind worked furiously to process the rapid speech that had just assaulted his ears.

"Yeah, he's always like that." Lestrade chuckled, silently relieved Sherlock's biting deductions hadn't been directed at him for once. "Come on, I'll need a statement from you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did NOT even edit this.....please tell me if you find any mistakes. And I really appreciate criticism!!

The next week was what John now called uneventful. Three robberies, one at gunpoint and four road accidents. No suspicious deaths in alleyways. Or anywhere else within 10 kilometres. John hadn't heard a word about Standish in all that time. Not on the news. Not from Sarah when he asked for a replacement pager, not from Sherlock who had not summoned John across the road since swooping out of the crime scene he had dragged John to. 

Well until the next Thursday at 2:06am. 

John hadn't been sleeping, not since he woke hours ago, gasping for air, a scream all too ready to tear itself from his throat had he not bitten down on his fist. He had been shaking uncontrollably, his shoulder ached and for some reason his leg did too. Dregs of the dream were still flickering cruelly behind his eyelids, the barrel of the gun, all it's scuff marks and scratches still etched vividly in his mind. He hated that gun more than he hated it's owner. That gun was the reason he'd been wrenched out of that life and forced into this one. The no one with the hotel room that seemed to be a vacuum of air.

He had swung his feet off the mattress and stood, pointedly ignoring a small protest from his leg that had no right complaining as he made the few steps to his tiny balcony. He greedily sucked in the mid-spring air, still cold enough to hurt his lungs and wake him up. He leaned his elbows on the railing and found his gaze drifting, once again, to the row of flats across the road. 

The windows of one caught his particular attention. There was a faint glow from within, as if it had been illuminated by fire or candlelight. Most likely the fire. On the far right window John saw movement, a silhouette of a rather tall figure swaying slightly at the window, his arms held up in an unusual stance. He was facing away from the window but John could understand the movements clearly enough. He strained his ears and sure enough, the high notes of a violin could just be heard through the panes of window. And somehow, Sherlock Holmes managed to surprise him yet again. 

John didn't even notice the edge of his panic attack ebbing away as he stole another minute of listening to the mournful notes dancing across the street. As the cold eventually forced him back inside, John decided against sleep and decided to watch the tiny excuse for a telly.

Halfway through the final shootout of a James Bond movie, John heard the shrill freak-out of his pager. He dug around the sheets of the bed before finding it and shutting it up before checking the signal data. Sure enough, his trip didn't warrant anything but his two feet. He decided to bring his jacket this time just in case the fire had died down and it's not like there was a rush anyway.

He made his way casually across the street, not bothering to knock. He climbed the stairs one at a time save for the eleventh and already began guessing the latest hiding place for Sherlock's phone. Sure enough, the fire was burning on it's last legs and was the only light source in the room apart from the street lamps invading their orange glow into the silent flat. 

John turned, by instinct, to the sofa and was surprised to see it vacant of any overgrown adults in their pajamas. Instead, Sherlock was sitting, one leg crossed over the other in a chair by the dying fire, dressed in a suit and plucking the strings of a violin. He opened his mouth to ask how the hell Sherlock was still managing to drag John out of his room and was prompty cut off before he could begin.

"How do you feel about the violin?" 

John remained in the doorway, unsure how to reply to Sherlock's new test. Or was his way of greeting?

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." 

John's brow wrinkled "Who said anything about flatmates?" 

Sherlock quirked his lips a little, raking his eyes over john as if he were a prize. "I did, just now."

John's eyes flickered to the fridge and back to where Sherlock had resumed plucking strings absentmindedly. "I hardly think the violin is the worst thing about you" He muttered. 

Sherlock's eyes followed John's line of sight and smirked. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. Few years ago her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"You stopped her husband being executed?" 

"Oh no I ensured it." And with sudden agility, Sherlock got to his feet and went into the kitchen. John heard the unmistakable click of a kettle being turned on. He followed after, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen watching the other man raid the cupboards.

"Is that it then?" He asked

"Is that what?" Sherlock turned abruptly, looking as though he had forgotten John was still there.

"We've barely just met and now you want me to move into your flat?"

"Problem?"

John smiled, a little in disbelief for this very, very mad stranger. "You don't know a thing about me, you don't even know my name."

Sherlock paused in his movements, putting the mug he was holding on the table and let a small smile grace his lips. He placed his hands on the bench behind him and took a deep breath. "I know you’ve got a brother with a bit of money who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks you're suffering from PTSD because of the war. Quite incorrectly, I'm afraid. I'd describe it as withdrawal. Why else would you apply for essentially the same job here in London? That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?" 

And the tea forgotten, Sherlock brushes past a very flabbergasted John and swings on his belstaff with a very exaggerated flourish

"Coming?" He called back

"Wha- where?" 

"Crime scene!" And John is left alone in the flat, watching after a very insane individual prancing out the door.

It only took a few moments hesitation before John began the chase.

\---

"Ok you've got questions." Sherlock sighed after a weighted silence.

"Yeah, we're we going?"

"Already told you. Next."

"You didn't tell me exactly where."

Sherlock sighed and turned to look out the windows of the cab, blatantly ignoring John.

\---

"So who are you? And I'm not asking for your name, obviously, but what do you do?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock retorted, opening a dumpster and peering inside.

"Well I would say, some sort of private detective…"

"But?" Came the echoed reply

"But the police don't consult amateurs"

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. "That's right, they don't"

"So…"

"Here, what does this taste like to you?" A gloved hand was shoved under John's nose, who recoiled violently. 

"Jesus Christ!! You wanted me to taste his blood??" 

Sherlock shrugged and glanced around the now abandoned alley, bloodstains still adorning the crumbling walls of adjacent buildings.

"Well they say animals taste far worse when they die stressfully." He dabbed his forefinger onto his tongue and grimaced. "You know, I can't really tell." And with that he spat onto the ground and swept out the alleyway for the second time.

\---

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" 

"I didn't know, I saw it." Came the muffled reply. John considered asking Sherlock's back another question but was interrupted by a very triumphant "aha!" from the lean figure looming over the corpse on the table. 

"Found anything?" Said a very tired looking Molly, coming back into the mortuary, two steaming cups in hand. 

"Yes, yes yes!" Sherlock replied, spinning around to grin at John. "Tanned face but no tan above the wrists. That says abroad but not sunbathing"

Both John and Molly gave confused looks to the corpse of a very blue John Standish and back to each other. Clueless to the confusion of the other occupants in the room, Sherlock continued his rant.

"Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military but you're also a leaper, so trained in medicine. An army doctor. Obvious! And the glands have no tumors, therefore the conclusion is, John was murdered." 

And once again, John was left staring after Sherlock with even more questions than before. His only consolation was that Molly, who he had only just been introduced to that night (or early morning), looked just as bewildered.

\---

John was walking back to the hotel when he felt that familiar prickle at the nape of his neck. The one that told him he was being watched or followed. That sense had saved him on countless occasions in Afghanistan...and one one or two times before that.

He glanced over his shoulder, trying to make it look as surreptitious as he could. Sure enough, a little ways down the road, a sleek black car was gliding smoothly toward him, going far too slow to be considered normal. John hunched his shoulders and crossed the road quickly, using that as another excuse to glance down the road at the car. 

He increased his pace. He was still at least ten minutes away from the hotel and no cabs had passed him. In fact, not a single vehicle had been on the road, probably because it was well past 4am. John looked back at the car, not bothering to pretend he didn't notice it and his stomach did a little flip. The car had moved to his side of the road and sped up to John's pace.

He considered ducking into one of the many alleyways he passed but the image of John Standish' corpse lying at the crime scene kept popping into his head. Sherlock, of course, hadn't said if he'd solved the mystery, or murder as he called it, so the killer was still in London somewhere. Possibly a few metres away and slowly approaching at a torturously slow pace. 

He would've kicked himself if he hadn't been walking so fast. He should have hitched a ride with Molly, maybe even gone back to her place to crash. Maybe gotten to know her better. Maybe could've cooked her breakfast the next morning ...well, later this morning.

He wondered if Sherlock had walked back to baker street too. Maybe he was lying in an alley, bleeding to death. He shook his head, remembering the pager still in his pocket. No one had been murdered tonight because it hadn't happened yet. But it was probably about to.

And for the first time, John wished he wasn't a leaper. Wished he had a chip in his brain that was screaming at someone else to rescue him because the car had stopped and the backseat window rolled down, very, very slowly. John almost wanted to roll his eyes at the exaggerated suspense. 

He stopped walking, reminded himself that he had been a soldier and decided to face his new tormenter. Short, dark hair and impeccably dressed in a suit. John vaguely noticed the similarities between this man and Sherlock. The similarities stopped after the man grinned and spoke.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi."


End file.
